The Princess of Cleves #02

Story Info
A Pervy Version of a French Classic.
3.6k words
4.39
10.3k
2

Part 2 of the 16 part series

Updated 09/24/2022
Created 07/28/2012
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Rosalind was nervous; it was the first time she had ventured out into Paris alone. She took a hackney to the jewelers, and paid the coachman to wait for her. The merchant's shop gleamed with gold, silver, and gems of every color, all flashing in the sunlight. Mme. de Chartes sent her there to pick up some jewelry, a gift for her debut at court. Rosalind's little heart beat faster at the thought of a present.

The Prince de Cleves aimlessly strolled the streets of Paris that day, watching all the people scurry around him. When he heard a sweet delicate voice, he turned to see the lithe and elegant form of a young woman. Although he had not seen her face, he knew it lovely. Upon hearing footsteps behind her, the young woman turned, and the Prince nearly swooned. She blushed under the heat of his gaze, emanating from a blazing blue eyes. The Prince browsed the merchandise, sneaking glances at her.

Rosalind could not understand why the young man kept looking at her in such a way. It made her feel as though she were standing naked before him. His eyes were moving up and down the cases of jewels, without ever seeing them, until he finally came to stand close to her. Then, he became very interested in a large gold ring set with tiger's eye.

The jeweler returned with a case. Inside was a delicate necklace made of rose quartz and pearls set in silver. Rosalind's face lit up when she saw it.

"There is a matching bracelet and earrings as well, Mademoiselle," the jeweler said.

"They will look lovely on you," the Prince commented, smiling at Rosalind. He prayed the merchant would say her name. It was obvious she came from delicate breeding. Under his eyes her face turned as pink as the stones of her necklace. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch her slender fingers.

"I will wrap these up for you," the jeweler said. After handing Rosalind her packet, she rushed from the store.

The merchant cleared his throat, and now the Prince blushed. He bought the ring, to remind himself of the day he had met her. As he walked home, she walked beside him. He could see her dark eyelashes, her prim mouth, her bud like breasts. A new opened rose in Paris, and he did not know her name.

When he arrived in the court of the Princess Mary, he told them of this fey woman who had bewitched him so. He praised her demure mien, her modest blushes. As he began to describe her thick mahogany locks, one of the ladies whispered into Mary's ear, surely it was Rosalind.

"Prince, this woman for whom you feel such passion, whose name you do not know, what would you do if you met her here tomorrow?" Mary asked.

The Prince rushed to her and fell before her feet. "My Princess, I would forever be in your debt," he said, reaching up take her hands. She stroked his hair, and he began kissing her fingers. She left him curled up in his lap, daydreaming about the next morning.

That night Rosalind teased him in his dreams. They were in the store, he was helping her to put on her necklace, his fingers brushing against her satin skin. He was so close he could smell the fragrance she wore, a delicate rose. She turned in his hands, her face upturned. When he leaned down to kiss her, she slipped from his grasp, and the game began again. He bedecked her with ear pendants, bracelets, rings, all night.

The next day he took great care with his toilette. He picked a rose from the garden and affixed it to his jacket with a great diamond broach. He did not forget to wear his tiger's eye ring. As he walked to his carriage, there was a spring in his step. He wanted to run to Mary's chamber, but he forced himself to walk to her court. For a moment, his heart stopped. There she stood, and she blushed again at seeing him.

Mme. de Chartes could not help but notice the young man's reaction to her daughter.

"See Prince, have I not kept my word?" the Princess Mary said. "Come here, Rosalind, and meet the Prince de Cleves. You saw one another yesterday, and he was quite smitten with you."

Rosalind stepped forward, and curtseyed. The Prince took her hand in his, and gave it a lingering kiss. "Rosalind, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well Prince."

Rosalind stared at the ground as the Prince stared at her. Mary startled them all with her silvery laugh. Just then the Chevalier de Guise walked into the room. He gasped when he saw the sylvan creature, frozen in fear before the Princess and court. She clasped her hands together and her face flushed even brighter.

Mme. de Chartes smiled when she saw another gallant stride into the room, heart leaping at the sight of her daughter. Among all these noble men, she would find the perfect match for her.

The young woman was relieved when they left. All the new emotions of that morning left her bewildered. The way the men looked at her, it made her body feel warm and languid. They were always smiling, their eyes shining. The assiduous Chevalier de Guise did not leave her side, and she recognized the ring the Prince wore as the one from the store. She had worn her new jewelry too. Her mother said the gems symbolized tender love and purity. She did not feel pale pink and pearl after her first day at court; she felt red and violet.

After they arrived to the Hotel de Chartes, she claimed to have a headache. Once the maid left the room, she placed a pillow between her legs. As she rubbed herself, she thought of the Prince de Cleves' mouth, the Chevalier de Guise's gentle hands. She did not know why she was excited, why their gazes' made her blush, she did know that there was only one way to deliver herself from this turmoil. She gave a soft cry which her young lovers would have given their souls' to hear. Then she fell into a sweet slumber, a bead of sweat trailing down the nape of her neck.

* * * *

All the men in court fell in love with Rosalind: it was the thing to do. They played a game where they tried to make her blush. It was easy too. They stood close to her, or trailed a finger up her arm. The Prince de Cleves and the Chevalier de Guise were once great friends, but their relationship cooled as their rivalry for Rosalind heated. The Marechal de St. Andre preferred to lurk in the hallways.

"Rosalind, how are you today?" the he asked as she walked past him.

The young woman jumped, and the Marechal gave her a low bow. He was a tall man with stooped shoulders, rounding his back into a hunch.

"Please pardon me for frightening you. Where are you going? I shall escort you."

Rosalind began to stutter. "Oh, I was..." She sighed. "I was going out for some fresh air, the court can be stifling. I wanted to be alone for a minute."

"Well my dear, place you arm in mine, and I shall not say a word." The Marechal gave her his most winning smile as he held out his arm.

She frowned, but threaded her arm through his.

The Marechal's heart soared, and he placed his hand over her's. As promised, he did not say a word, but rather took her on the less traveled paths of the Louvre. He had to stop himself from trembling. It would not do to frighten the girl. The press of her forearm against his burned.

As she turned to look at a painting, the Marechal leaned close to inhale the scent of roses. Her silken strands of hair brushed against his lips. He thought of tangling his fingers in that hair, moving his mouth over her slender throat. His breath quickened, and he hid his excitement from the young woman. If he spent any more time alone with her, he would betray himself. He led her back to Mary's court, kissing her hand as he bowed. As he walked away, he wondered if she knew his name.

Madame de Chartes could not have been more delighted with her position in the court. She should have known better, for Diana was working to thwart her.

The Duke de Nevers forbade his son, the Prince de Cleves, to continue with his affair. The Count de Guise expressed such strong disapproval of his son's pursuits that the Chevalier de Guise hid his love for Rosalind deep in his heart.

Where once there were young gallants everywhere she turned, Rosalind found herself abandoned at court. Angry, Mme. de Chartes set her sights even higher and aspired to a Prince of the Blood.

Princess Mary, who had become quite fond Rosalind, did everything in her power to aid her. She was in the arms of her lover one afternoon, M. d'Anville, and she turned to him.

"Tell me, how do you find Rosalind?" she asked.

"Why must you always talk of court," d'Anville murmured as he kissed her chest. She lay in bed naked, always a chore with the grand corps, a corset of particularly devious construction. He buried his face between her breasts and rubbed his sex against her thigh. A pearl of moisture leaked from him onto her skin.

"But what do you think of Rosalind?" she asked again, rubbing her sex against his hips.

He knew she would not stop until he answered her. "She is beautiful, and fucked; Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois, is the sworn enemy of the Chartes." He darted between Mary's legs and thrust his sex deep into her. "Just like you my love." As she cried out he put his hand in her mouth to stifle her.

Mary sucked on his fingers as he stabbed her. He twisted her hard nipples between his fingers, and they vibrated as she moaned. She turned her head, and he gripped her shoulders, pinning her beneath him as he licked her ear. Her hands grasped his buttocks, one finger stroking his anus.

"Yes," d'Anville whispered.

She stuck her finger in her mouth, then gently worked it into his anus. His legs quivered against her. She used her finger to move him as though he were a puppet. Positioning herself under him so the tip of his phallus brushed the back of her womb, she beckoned him with her finger, urging them both to a climax. They lay there panting.

"I want you to speak with the King about a marriage between the Prince-Dauphin and Rosalind," the Mary told him, stroking his hair.

"You know I cannot concentrate during these moment with you," d'Anville replied, rubbing his face against her bosom. "Send a servant to me this evening with a missive. I will do whatever you wish my love." As he spoke, he kissed her soft skin.

Princess Mary smiled as M. d'Anville drowsed. The clock struck two, and they rose. Before they dressed, they sprinkled one another with lavender cologne. Mary loved how, at the end of the day, she could smell the remnants of their tryst on her skin. M. d'Anville on his part would keep his shirt under his pillow in order to inhale the fragrance of his mistress. He sent a servant to her bed chamber that night with a sprig of lavender.

* * * *

Diana squealed after she read Mary's letter. The manservant stood beaming, ready for his reward.

"How beautifully you have opened this," she said to him. "It will be so easy to reattach the seal, none will be the wiser." She left the letter on the desk, and embraced the young man. "I have a special treat for you today."

He knew what that meant. Diana fell to her knees and pulled off his breeches. He moaned as she rubbed her full lips against his sex, laughter tipping forth as he jumped in her hands.

"Sit down," she commanded, pointing at a chair. The young man shuffled over to the seat. His cheeks were ruddy, his breathing quick. Diana fondled his testicles, her other hand moving up and down his shaft. As she twisted her hand she tilted her head to the other side, and the servant felt his entire groin caressed. He started to throb in her mouth. She moved the heel of her hand to the base of his testicles, touching the very root of his manhood. It pulsed in her hand, and strained as she rubbed her palm against him.

He stuttered as he filled her mouth with his seed. With each eager surge, she suckled at him. Sitting back, she rubbed her thumb along the ridge of the underside of his phallus. The last pearl she licked off, smiling at him. Rising, she kissed him. He tried to withdraw, but she had him trapped, and she made him taste himself.

"I am very pleased with you," she whispered. "Now, leave me, and take your note." After he left she dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. "So...that frigid old woman would have her daughter marry the Prince-Dauphin. She aspires to make that little mouse a Princess of the Blood." She laughed.

* * * *

Despite her frustrations, Mme. de Chartes refused to be chased from the court. She saw the men who tried not to look at her daughter, and if she watched closely enough, she saw the fire in their eyes when they slipped.

Rosalind on her part became despondent. The Princess Mary and her ladies remained loyal to her, but the only nobleman who would speak to her was the Marechal de St. Andre. They had taken to meeting by an arbor of wisteria and strolling the gardens. The air was choked with the fragrance of tuberoses. When they spoke, it was about the weather, or a play, or a book. Oftentimes they said nothing at all, just felt the sunshine and the breeze. If there was a rose of particular beauty, the Marechal would cut it with his penknife, and tuck it in her hair. Once, he touched her cheek, saying there was a speck of dirt on it. What she saw in his eyes spoke of a different motive, and she blushed. The Marechal's face took a red hue as well.

Mme. de Chartes did not approve of her daughter's friendship with this hunchback. There was nothing to be done though: the Marechal was beloved by the King, and to speak to Rosalind of him, she must tell her of the Marechal's intentions. Better to leave the girl innocent. Besides, enough people at court belonged to Diana's cabal, she did not need to make an enemy of Marechal as well. And she would, if she forbade her daughter to see him. After all, he only took the girl for walks in the garden under the court's watchful eye. There were no moments for impropriety.

All this time the Prince de Cleves played court to Mary, twisting his tiger's eye ring about his finger. His deep blue eyes shone when Rosalind entered in the room. When his father, the Duke de Nevers died, he mourned as long as necessary. Then he asked Mme. de Chartes for her daughter's hand. Despairing that no other man would propose, Mme. de Chartes promised she would speak with her daughter.

"Tell me dear, what is your impression of the Prince de Cleves?" Mme. de Chartes asked her one day.

"He is a fine young man. We have had several pleasant conversations, and I like to watch him play tennis," Rosalind replied.

"How would you feel about marrying him?"

Rosalind looked up from her needlework at her mother, trying to discern what her reply should be. Her mother's face betrayed no emotion. "Do you like him? Do you think I should say 'yes'?"

Mme. de Chartes beamed with pride, and took her daughter's hand. "Never could a mother wish for a more perfect and obedient daughter. I believe the Prince de Cleves would make an excellent husband."

"Then I will say 'yes'."

Mme. de Chartes began weeping and threw her arms around her daughter. Rosalind returned her embrace, but did not feel her excitement.

The Prince fell on his knees before Rosalind when he found his proposal accepted. He held her hands to his face and bathed them in tears and kisses. From his jacket he produced a ring he purchased should she accept. It was a great cheerful aquamarine surrounded by sparkling diamonds, and it fit her finger perfectly.

Had the Chevalier de Guise been at court he would have despaired upon seeing the affianced Rosalind on the arm of his former friend. The Marechal de St. Andre congratulated her warmly, using the occasion as and excuse to embrace her. He bent his head down to brush his lips against a throat that smelt of roses.

* * * *

The Prince de Cleves found Rosalind friendly, but nothing more. He attributed her coolness to her naivety. He began to woo his fiance in earnest, with flowers and trinkets. She responded warmly, but without passion. He started to fret that someone else held her heart, but when he watched her, he did not see her eyes linger on any man. She even ceased her walks with the Marechal de St. Andre. This gentleman always hailed the couple when he saw them in the halls. He often spoke to them, giving them advice on setting up a new household.

One rainy afternoon, the Prince de Cleves was sitting with Rosalind in the library, enveloped in the soft scent of roses. She had been reading him poetry in her sweet clear voice, but he did not hear the words. Instead he watched her animated face as she spoke. He tried to discern any emotion as she recited these words of love, to see if she would look up at him when she mouthed some tender line. Finally, he took the book from her hands and kissed her.

Rosalind froze. The Princess' lips were soft and wet. She opened her mouth under the stroking of his tongue. Looking into her eyes, he saw a virgin's tender fear mixed a young woman's curiosity, but not love. He kissed her fiercely, caressing her neck and shoulders, and she began to respond to him. His hands wandered, and he pulled her into his lap. He lifted her skirt and she protested.

"Monsieur de Cleves, I do not know if this is proper," she said.

"I will be your husband soon," he said, trailing his fingers along the porcelain skin of her inner thigh. "I will only touch you, and I will stop if you wish."

Mlle. de Chartes stared into his blue eyes. The Prince could see virtue's feeble protest flit across her face. She nodded her head, and rested it against his shoulder as he slid his hand up her leg to caress her sex. He pushed one finger inside of her, and she hissed. Much to his surprise, she began to rock her hips in his lap, her arms around his neck. He would have thought her debauched were it not for her girlish gasps. She must have a game she plays alone at night.

"Do you love me?" the Prince asked, kissing her brow.

She nodded, but did not speak. Her hands clenched his jacket, and his palm became moist as she shuddered. "Oh Prince," she moaned with a final twitch.

He held her for a minute, and she lay in his arms, without touching him, without speaking to him. Taking her hand, he tilted her chin up to look at him. "I love you. Do you love me Mlle. de Chartes?"

"Yes, of course Prince," she said, smiling sweetly at him.

"Truly, you do, you love me with all your heart, as you would love a husband and not a dear friend?" he asked, fixing her with his sharp eyes.

She tugged face free as her cheeks flushed red. "Yes Prince, I do."

The Prince de Cleves pushed her from his lap and stood up. "Your blushes, Madam, cannot deceive me; they are signs of excitement, but do not prove the heart affected, and I shall conclude nothing more from them than that," he said curtly.

As he walked away, angry tears seeped from his eyes. Once in his carriage, he allowed himself to cry. He wiped at his tears, only to find her fragrance lingered on his fingers. Choking back a bitter sob, he set about convincing himself that there was nothing alarming in Rosalind's behavior.

His young fiance ran weeping to her mother. She told Mme. de Chartes what the Prince had said, and how he had been angry. Mme. de Chartes soothed her distraught daughter. She wondered if she had not done her a disservice, raising her far from the court, spending 18 years hardening her heart to gallantry, warning her of the dangers of love. Could it be true that she would not take to such a splendid young man? Could her own bitter disappointment in love have tainted her view, leading her to raise a daughter with an insensible heart? She banished the thoughts from her mind as she held Rosalind.

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AntoinetteMAntoinetteMover 11 years agoAuthor
Thank you Anonymous!

Both of you! I've pulled some snippets I'd sent off for a consideration in an anthology to publish it here, in it's entirety. Otherwise, there would be very important (and steamy) scenes missing.

AnonymousAnonymousover 11 years ago
Encore!

Quite lush and delicious!

AnonymousAnonymousover 11 years ago
5 stars

Keep up the good work.

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